


A Series of Moments

by nox_night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_night/pseuds/nox_night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have just moved into 221B and are slowly acclimating to one another as roommates, colleagues, friends, and maybe something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Moments

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small ficlet idea I had in mind while watching Sherlock. I really like the idea of writing their internal thoughts and watching them grow together through the span of the show. So if this is received well, I think I would like to go through the series and create those inner monologues in a similar way. 
> 
> I am learntitonyoutube on tumblr.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his fingers steepled, pressed to his lips, immobile as he was lost in thought. John was busying himself in the kitchen, putting the kettle on as he ruffled a towel through his short hair. The subtle aroma of toast and John’s body wash mingled in the air, wrapping the sleuth in an unexpected cocoon of warmth and domesticity.

John wordlessly set a cup of tea and toast on the table in front of Sherlock, the plea for him to eat unspoken between them as John settled into his chair, picked up the paper and began eating his own breakfast. Sherlock reached out a hand and brought a piece of toast to his lips, opening his eyes slightly to see the doctor’s lips twitch into a smile, his eyes fixed on his paper, but not reading. Sherlock stretched out more comfortably on the sofa, slowly chewing his toast without comment, smiling that such a simple act as his eating breakfast would please his flatmate.

His body was just transport but it was nice for a change that someone cared about it.

* * *

 

_Sherlock Holmes_.

John watched with rapt attention as Sherlock inspected the body lying before them. He watched as Sherlock moved with grace and precision, his crisp eyes, shades of blue today, darting across every detail, cataloguing every piece of the puzzle with ease and complete understanding. Despite how exhaustive Sherlock could be at times, John would never tire of watching this man pick apart something’s history with a tenuous glance.

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and utterly _fascinating_. He was like a drug. He made John forget the struggles of everyday life and the problems of his past.

The detective stood upright, towering over the members of the Yard still in evidence, and began rapidly listing his deductions. John stood straighter. His pulse quickened. His every sense fixated on the brilliant observations, his adrenaline rising in anticipation of the chase. Sherlock concluded and his eyes locked with John’s, understanding passed wordlessly between them as they both turned to pursue the first lead of the case.

They both smiled to themselves, eager for the action. Alleviation from boredom. The doctor and the detective against the world.

 

* * *

Sherlock knew that John enjoyed the element of danger and adrenaline fueled evenings living with him provided. John was as much of an addict as Sherlock himself. What Sherlock did not know is why every time the doctor drew near, or brushed against him, or gazed at him in awe and wonder, his body seemed to thrum with something long-repressed and unfamiliar. He once again lay across the sofa, eyes closed, hands steepled as though in prayer. Unusually, rather than disappear into his mind palace, Sherlock allowed himself to focus his observational talents on his own body, his transport. He focused on the silk of his dressing gown and the pleasant feeling as it slid against his sensitive skin. He listened to the beat of his heart, the sound echoing inside his head as his attention focused on counting each thrum against his chest.

He was focusing on his breaths as John nudged his shoulder with a cup of tea, the slight pressure of his fingers making Sherlock’s heart stutter unwillingly. He opened his eyes and took the cup from his friend, their fingers touching slightly before John turned back to his own seat and resumed the novel he was reading.

Sherlock sat up and muttered an inaudible thank you as he began to catalogue his damnable transport’s reaction to the doctor. His heart stuttered again as John smiled up at him and nodded before returning his attention once more to the pages in front of him. Sherlock’s fingers seemed to tingle with the small brush of their earlier contact. Contact that meant nothing, just an incidental touch, but his skin seemed to yearn for more of its own accord. Was this sentiment?

He focused his attention on John for a moment, surveying the blond man as he sipped his tea. His eyes zeroed in on John’s mouth as his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, and desire pooled in Sherlock’s belly at the sight.

_Oh._

 

 

  


End file.
